Attacks on President Obama, demonizing of President Bush's war fever, moralizing about President Clinton impeachment for private sexual acts all find their roots in the erosion of our respect as a society of presidency. One man is the well documented root of declining respect for the office and the men (or someday women) while hold the nation's top elected office. Republican president Richard Nixon was responsible for break-ins, thefts, manipulation of elections, intimidation of the media and the illeagal actions of his staff. Nixon, the only president to resign in office, never faced trial as he was fully pardoned by his Vice President turned President, Gerald Ford.

As Sen. Sam Ervin
completed his 20-year Senate career in 1974 and issued his final report
as chairman of the Senate Watergate committee, he posed the question:
“What was Watergate?”

Countless answers have been offered in the 40 years since June
17, 1972, when a team of burglars wearing business suits and rubber
gloves was arrested at 2:30 a.m. at the headquarters of the Democratic
Party in the Watergate office building in Washington. Four days
afterward, the Nixon White House offered its answer: “Certain elements
may try to stretch this beyond what it was,” press secretary Ronald
Ziegler scoffed, dismissing the incident as a “third-rate burglary.”

View four decades worth of Washington Post stories and multimedia on the scandal and its fallout.

History proved that it was anything but. Two years later,
Richard Nixon would become the first and only U.S. president to resign,
his role in the criminal conspiracy to obstruct justice — the Watergate
coverup — definitively established.

Another answer has since
persisted, often unchallenged: the notion that the coverup was worse
than the crime. This idea minimizes the scale and reach of Nixon’s
criminal actions.

Ervin’s answer to his own question hints at the
magnitude of Watergate: “To destroy, insofar as the presidential
election of 1972 was concerned, the integrity of the process by which
the President of the United States is nominated and elected.” Yet
Watergate was far more than that. At its most virulent, Watergate was a
brazen and daring assault, led by Nixon himself, against the heart of
American democracy: the Constitution, our system of free elections, the
rule of law.

Today, much more than when we first covered this story as young
Washington Post reporters, an abundant record provides unambiguous
answers and evidence about Watergate and its meaning. This record has
expanded continuously over the decades with the transcription of
hundreds of hours of Nixon’s secret tapes, adding detail and context to
the hearings in the Senate and House of Representatives; the trials and
guilty pleas of some 40 Nixon aides and associates who went to jail; and
the memoirs of Nixon and his deputies. Such documentation makes it
possible to trace the president’s personal dominance over a massive
campaign of political espionage, sabotage and other illegal activities
against his real or perceived opponents.

In the course of his
five-and-a-half-year presidency, beginning in 1969, Nixon launched and
managed five successive and overlapping wars — against the anti-Vietnam
War movement, the news media, the Democrats, the justice system and,
finally, against history itself. All reflected a mind-set and a pattern
of behavior that were uniquely and pervasively Nixon’s: a willingness to
disregard the law for political advantage, and a quest for dirt and
secrets about his opponents as an organizing principle of his
presidency.
Long before the Watergate break-in, gumshoeing,
burglary, wiretapping and political sabotage had become a way of life in
the Nixon White House. -more-

With a recession looming, and possibly worse, over Europe and much of the world, our markets may not be able to maintain their consumption of US manufactured goods and US based services.

Even the crown jewels of the developing world, China and Brazil, are facing financial restraints, plus have focused with providing products for their own domestic consumers that once were made the the USA.

One
of the most daring prison escapes in U.S. history happened 50 years ago
Monday. Legend has always held that if the three men who escaped from
Alcatraz are still alive, they will return on this anniversary. Unlikely
as it seems, NPR's Laura Sullivan — and the U.S. Marshals — plan to be
there.

Sometimes
referred to as "The Rock," Alcatraz Island on San Francisco Bay in
California served as a lighthouse, then a military fortification, and
then a federal prison until 1972, when it became a national recreation
area. Now the island is open to tours.

Fifty years ago, three men set out into the
frigid waters of the San Francisco Bay in a raft made out of raincoats.
It was one of the most daring prison escapes in U.S. history.

As one newsreel put it: The spoon proved "mightier than the bars at supposedly escape-proof Alcatraz prison."

Alcatraz Escape: Digging Out Of The Rock

"Three bank robbers serving long terms scratched
their way through grills covering an air vent, climbed a drainage pipe
and disappeared from the forbidding rock in San Francisco Bay," the
report continued.

The men — Frank Morris and
two brothers, John and Clarence Anglin — were never seen again. It was a
brilliant plan, carried out with meticulous care and patience, but with
such an unsatisfying ending. Did they make it? Or are they, as most
people assume, at the bottom of the bay?

The
legend has always held that if the men are alive, they will return to
Alcatraz on the 50th anniversary of their breakout. There's little
chance that's going to happen. But the anniversary is Monday, and I'm
headed to the island to see if they show up. The U.S. Marshals say they
will be there, too.

A Cunning SchemeThree years ago,
I went to Alcatraz for a story. A ranger there named John Cantwell took
me up to the roof. He flung open the door, and there it was: the old
air vent, a wide-open roof and a pipe hugging the building all the way
to the bottom. The path to freedom, as Cantwell called it.

"So
we've got three convicts climbing through an air vent. They pop the
vent off — just kick it off — they're on the roof now and they run
across the roof top trying not to make too much noise," he explained.
"They slid down the pipe, hopped over that fence; they ran past those
water tanks, then down that hillside to the east side of the island.
Where the smokestack is where they basically entered the water."

It
was such a terrific plan. What guard in the 1960s would think you could
dig your way out of a maximum security prison with a spoon?

Bill Long was the lieutenant in charge of the
cell block that night, which he said was "totally normal" for him. I
found out last week he died a couple years ago, but when I spoke to him
in 2009, he said that in retrospect there were a couple weird things
that happened on the shift before his. One guard said he thought he
heard a hub cap rolling on the floor, which of course now brings to mind
that air vent. And another guy said he could have sworn he heard
footsteps.

But it didn't come to anything. Everyone was in their beds.

Morris and the Anglin brothers had created these life-like paper-mache heads, propped perfectly on their pillows.

Even Long didn't realize they were dummies until morning.

"The
men went around the gallery to count and when they did, the man on B1,
he didn't come back. He was hotfootin' it. He says, 'Bill, Bill, I got a
guy up here who won't get up for count.' Well, I says, 'Sarge, I'll get
him up!'" Long recalled. "So I went down to the cell, get down on my
knee, put my head against the bar. I reach my left hand in through the
bars and hit the pillow and hollered, 'Get up for count!' Bam! The head
flopped off on the floor. ... Well, I thought right then that there's a
head that fell off on the floor. They said I jumped four feet back from
the bars. I mean, the most unexpected thing you could almost imagine."
The men had vanished.

Morris
and the Anglins had made a boat and life vests out of raincoats. They
even made glue to seal the seams. Days later, when one of the vests
turned up on a beach in northern California, it was still seaworthy.
So where did they go?

The Manhunt
U.S.
Marshal Michael Dyke has been hunting for Morris and the Anglins for
almost a decade. People call him all the time with sightings and
theories about their neighbors.

"I don't get excited about leads, because if you get emotionally involved in leads it obscures your judgment," he says.

Even Dyke thinks the men are probably dead. But he's still looking.

"The
marshals don't give up looking for anybody. Especially in fugitive
investigations, if you've got a warrant we're never going to stop
looking for you," he says.

The escape from
Alcatraz is the marshal's sixth-oldest case. The other five are also
prison escapes, from the 1950s. Dyke says the marshals need proof of
death, or the fugitives have to turn 99 — a little tip if you end up on
the run.

Morris and the Anglins are only in their mid-80s.

When asked if he thinks they'll show up, Dyke says, "I don't think so." And if they did? "I would arrest them."

The
U.S. Marshals Service swears to never give up the search for Frank
Morris and Clarence and John Anglin until they are either proclaimed
dead or found alive.

It's hard to imagine they would come just to be
handcuffed — or that someone would prosecute them if they did.
Nonviolent bank robbers from half a century ago? Morris' first criminal
charge was for stealing food after his parents either died or abandoned
him. He was sent to prison when he was 14.

The Fatal Flaw?
Inmates
told investigators Morris was the mastermind. Such a well-conceived
plan. Yet it failed to take into account one crucial thing: the midnight
tides in the San Francisco Bay.

You can swim
from Alcatraz to San Francisco, but you can't do it headed in the wrong
direction, at night, in frigid temperatures, just as the snow melt from
the Sierras is barreling through the Golden Gate Bridge.

Several weeks
after the men disappeared, a Norwegian shipping vessel reported seeing a
body floating face down in the ocean just a few miles past the bridge,
wearing a navy blue pea coat.

Nobody seems to
know where the rumor started that the men would return on the 50th
anniversary. But Monday, Dyke and even some of the Anglins' family
members will take the ferry over to Alcatraz — and wait. Just in case.

NASA is sending a crew underwater for two
weeks to prepare for potential manned flights to asteroids. The program is
rekindling astronauts' hopes about returning to space. The goal is to anticipate problems, environment and stress on a crew that are far different than spending time in the Space Station or walking around on the moon. One example, already illustrated in popular movies, is that and un-achored hammer thrust could send an astronaut spiraling into space with the control or gravity to guarantee a return to safe ground.

NASA Fishes For Tools To Tackle Asteroid

EnlargeMiami Herald/MCT via Getty ImagesAstronaught
Shannon Walker of NASA and astronaut David Saint-Jacques of Canada test
moving a probe in the waters off Key Largo, Florida. The program, part
of NASA Extreme Environment Mission Operations (NEEMO) is meant to test
equipment and man's reactions for a human rendezvous with an asteroid.

NASA may have retired its shuttles, but it has its sights on sending astronauts deeper into space than ever before.

These
voyages are years away but on Monday, astronauts are heading underwater
to take part in a simulation that will help them figure out how they
might explore one possible new destination: A near-Earth asteroid.

Astronaut
Dottie Metcalf-Lindenburger flew on one of the last space shuttle
missions. She even helped prepare Atlantis for its final launch.

"It
was a very bitter sweet time," says Metcalf-Lindenburger, who really
wants to get to space again. But in the meantime, she's commanding a
four-person crew that's putting on scuba gear instead of space suits.
She says we all have to move on.

"Like
in all things. I just had my daughter finish up her last day of
preschool before she goes off to kindergarten. We have to shut chapters
and begin new chapters and we had to do that in the space program too,"
Metcalf-Lindenburger says.

Her crew will
spend two weeks working underwater, which is the best approximation on
this planet of what it would be like to operate in the zero gravity of
an asteroid.

Their base will be an underwater
lab called Aquarius. It's about the size of a school bus and sits 60
feet under the surface a few miles off the coast of Key Largo, Fla.

Metcalf-Lindenburger says floating underwater is a lot like floating in space.

"Water
is a nice way to free your body and get to explore a different way of
movement since we're so stuck with walking here on earth, its nice to
float around flip around. Just like in space," she says.
Want To Take A Sample From An Asteroid?

Cornell
University astronomer Steve Squyers is heading to Aquarius for the
second time. His last NEEMO mission was cut short because of a
hurricane.

He's thrilled to get another
chance to help figure out what kinds of equipment might help people do
research on an asteroid someday. Last time, Squyres and his crew mates
strapped jet packs to their backs and had a blast zooming through the
water.

"They were great for moving around, you'd see a rock outcrop 30 meters away. and you'd go flying over to it," he says.

But
they learned jet packs were terrible if you needed to stay still for
any length of time, like say, if you want to take a sample from an
asteroid.

"If you just do something as simple
as hit a rock with a hammer, you're going to go flying off into space,
so we've got to develop a whole new set of tricks and tools for
operating on the surface of an asteroid," Squyres says.

This time they're going to see whether mini submarines might allow them to hover in place.

"Imagine
this little submarine with a six-foot-long beam sticking off the front
of it and an astronaut on the front of that like hood ornament," says
Squyres.

NASA hopes to start sending astronauts and equipment to asteroids after 2025.

Find It And They Will Come
You might wonder why anyone would want to go to an asteroid, but Squyers says there are lots of reasons.
Some
asteroids are made of stuff like metals that some people think we could
be harvested. And Squyers say we need to learn all we can about
asteroids to understand more about the origin of the solar system and to
protect ourselves.

"Asteroids are a threat.
Asteroids have hit the earth before, we know that," he explains.
"Asteroids have caused mass extinctions. A small asteroid hitting the
earth wiped out the dinosaurs 65 million years ago. Unless we as a
species know how to prevent it."

And he says just sending robots to asteroids isn't enough. That means a lot coming from Sqyures because he's a robot guy. He's the principal investigator for the Mars Rover project.

"What our state-of-the-art robot on mars can do in a day, you can do in about 30 seconds," he says.
Dottie
Metcalf-Lindenburger predicts that as soon as NASA figures out how to
get people to an asteroid, people will want to go there.

Humans are explorers by nature we've been doing it for a very very long time.

And she hopes when NASA does sends people deeper into space she'll be one of them.

How "big" is the Internet? The answer is as big as the capacity to transmit and share information around the world using a fixed and allocated address system. And that capacity, a size and scope thought to be enough to last an eternity, is becoming too little and too slow. So a change had to be made...

4.3 billion just wasn't enough -- 340
undecillion is more like it. That's 340 trillion trillion trillion, the new
capacity of available Internet addresses, thanks to IPv6, the next generation
protocol that launched this past week.

Hollywood Is a Union Town

By Morton Thompson

Hollywood is a union town. Its actors are union men. Its pickets
are union pickets. Its scabs are mobbed with union thoroughness and
dispatch. Its stars are as labor conscious as its carpenters. And the
stronghold of unionism in Hollywood is the Screen Actors' Guild.

Five years ago a gag about a Hollywood actor being a union man
would have been good for a ripple of horror in Hollywood's
drawing-rooms and for a derisive laugh along the embattled labor fronts
of Eastern and Midwestern America. Stars were artists. Featured
players were artists. The least conspicuous extra was an artist. The
hem of Hollywood's epicene skirt was lifted gingerly and superciliously
as Hollywood walked over the mud puddles of its labor problems.

But Hollywood is a town where the least likely things happen. The
incredible has now become commonplace. The Screen Actors' Guild rules
the roost. It is probably on its way to becoming the richest and most
powerful labor union in America. The stars have stepped down into the
ranks to fight for the extras, the bit players, the masses. Their
victories have been crushing and complete. What the S. A. G. dictates,
the producers do. The result has been a startling betterment of working
conditions, somewhat increased pay, and the discovery that the iron
heel of the studios is still a heel, but that it is not iron and that
it is not, in fact, any more impressive than any other heel.

The Screen Actors' Guild really started in 1929. It started with a
strike. Most Hollywood actors belonged to Equity. Equity called a
strike. It wanted better working conditions than the producers were
willing to grant. Equity wasn't daring enough. It told its Hollywood
members who had contracts to refuse to sign new contracts. It told
members with pending contracts to refuse to sign. It told members
without contracts not to go to work. The brunt of the blow fell, of
course, on the little fellow, the chap without a contract. The strike
collapsed in twelve weeks without having accomplished much more than
keeping a few hundred actors out of work.

In March of 1930 the producers, a little worried by the abortive
Equity affair, decided to organize the actors in their own way. The
Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences was thrust forward as an
arbitration board. Actors got a few assurances that conditions would be
bettered and a method of lodging complaints, in return for a signed
agreement not to strike for five years. Most of the actors signed.

In 1932 the Eastern banks began to send out efficiency experts to
stop money wastage at the studios in which they had investments. They
couldn't do much about actors with contracts, but they slashed terms
for pending contracts, and by one ingenious dodge after another
proceeded to snip almost in half the salaries of many a free-lance
player. There were other grievances. California state labor laws
stipulate that women may not work longer than sixteen hours a day. But
it was pretty general knowledge that the major studios were able to
control the state labor bureau. Chorus girls were worked twenty-four
hours straight. Extras were kept shivering in the rain for endless
hours. Stunt men risked their necks; and when they broke them the
studios wouldn't pay the repair bills. Actors had no place to go to
complain. True, they had the Academy established by the producers. But
they were afraid to go there. They were afraid they might become known
as trouble-makers and be put on the studios' famous black list. As a
matter of fact, almost all who did appeal to the Academy received
unfailing courtesy and fair treatment. Nine out of ten of the cases
brought before the Academy were decided in favor of the actors. But not
many brought cases.

While Hollywood's famous parties raged, little coteries of
sober-minded actors conferred furtively. Their deliberations were
dangerous. Any hint of them, reaching the ear of a producer,
unquestionably would have meant the black list—bad pictures, bad roles,
joblessness. The studios had a bland one-for-all and all-for-one
policy by which unruly actors were disciplined by universally shut
doors. But out of these deliberations was born the S. A. G. The
original members deserve mention. They included Alan Mowbray, Ralph
Morgan, Kenneth Thomson. Alden Gay, Morgan Wallace, Leon Ames, James
and Lucille Gleason, Bradley Page, Claude King, Ivan Simpson, Boris
Karloff, Richard Tucker, Reginald Mason, Arthur Vinton, Clay Clement,
Charles Starrett, C. Aubrey Smith, Willard Robertson, Tyler Brooke, and
Noel Madison. At first they fared rather badly. Many persons asked to
join were shocked at the thought of joining a labor movement. Then 1933
came along. That was the year in which the studios, pleading poverty,
cut the salaries of every actor in Hollywood squarely in half on the
plea that the cut would avert tremendous lay-offs. When the cut was
accomplished, the studios proceeded to effect drastic lay-offs anyway.
And virtually every studio in Hollywood declared bonuses that same
year. This was a little too much even for blithe actors. In June the S.
A. G. was quietly incorporated. In July it invited every actor in
Hollywood to a big mass-meeting. Only a few turned out. It got sixty
members. The big shots wouldn't come in. Most of the stars were still
members of the Academy. Then the NRA motion-picture code was adopted,
and the Academy promptly assumed the right to represent the actors.

The producers now made a code of their own, which consisted mainly
of an agreement not to bid competitively for talent. A $10,000 fine
was established as a penalty for competitive bidding. It was this
competitive-bidding agreement that smoked out the big names. A meeting
was called at Frank Morgan's house. The Marx brothers and Charlie
Butterworth spent the entire day calling every actor and actress in
Hollywood. The newly founded S. A. G., shaky and pitifully small, was
invited along with the rest. One of the big shots made a small speech.
The gist of it was that the group gathered at Morgan's should hire
someone like Arthur Garfield Hays to go to Washington as their
representative. There was a considering silence. Eddie Cantor stood up.
"I've apparently come here," he said, "under a misconception. If this
organization isn't one that's going to help every man, woman, and child
in the industry, I'll say good night!" He didn't have to say good
night. Some of them sheepishly, some of them angrily, every star and
featured player in the room fell in with Cantor's demand.

The S. A. G. unit was asked to stand up and give its views on the
situation. Its proposals, explained by Ralph Morgan, its first
president, were so sound and its organization so ready for use that the
meeting resolved to join the group, reorganize it, elect new officers,
and proceed under the S. A. G. banner. Unionism had invaded Hollywood.
The battle had begun. When it became known that the stars were joining
the group, the membership jumped in three weeks from 81 to 4,000.

Almost immediately the new union sent its famous two-thousand-word
telegram to President Roosevelt, who countered by inviting Eddie
Cantor to Warm Springs. As a result, the actors won every point on
which they had attacked the producers' code and the suggestions made by
the producer-managed Academy for an actors' code.

Next the problem of extras was tackled—the most serious problem
before the union today. In 1934 the Senior Guild voted the creation of a
Junior Guild, to be composed of extras and bit players, and to give it
its own council and governing board. The demands of the Junior Guild
are made known to the Senior Guild, which then decides whether to give
them its support. Overwhelmingly the Seniors have sustained all demands
of the Juniors.

The abuses heaped on bit players, extras, and stunt men had always
been great. They were the victims of a stupid and lazy system which
originated at Central Casting, a bureau where the name and
qualifications of every extra in Hollywood are filed. Rank favoritism
still flourishes at Central Casting—the same extras can be seen in
picture after picture—but the extras are no longer helpless. They have
bargaining power now. In the old days, when a studio called Central
Casting and asked for 400 roller skaters, the lazy wretch who took the
call refused to go to the trouble of digging 400 roller skaters out of
the files. Instead, he drove down to a roller-skating rink, lined up
400 skaters at random, and sent them off to the studio. They were paid a
top of $10 a day for their work. And they kept 400 legitimate extras
out of work. That wasn't the worst of it, though. Those 400, a studio
pay check hot in their hands, began to ask one another: "How long has
this been going on? Let's be regular extras! Let get in on some of this
gravy!" And they became extras, thousands of them.

Now the studios rarely spend more than two and a half million
dollars a year for extras. And the S. A. G. suddenly discovered that
there were 23,000 extras in Hollywood. If the work had been spread out
evenly, an extra could have earned only $109 a year! Perhaps 5,000
extras could make a living wage—if there were only 5,000 extras. Today
by imposing dues the S. A. G. has cut down the Junior Guild population
to 6,600, and of that number 500 are dancers and 800 are bit players.
If an extra doesn't belong to the S. A. G. he can't get work in
Hollywood. And he doesn't belong if he can't pay his dues, which are
$18 a year in addition to an initiation fee of $25. Two weeks ago the
membership books were closed. The Junior Guild asked that dues be high;
it asked that its membership list be closed.

In 1934 the S. A. G. affiliated with the A. F. of L. through
Equity and the A. A. A. A. From 1935 to 1937 it cemented its relations
with labor, mended its fences. In 1937 the producers still wouldn't
negotiate with the S. A. G. The Wagner Act was validated. The producers
negotiated.

The Painters' Union called a strike. Actors passed through the
painters' picket lines and were called scabs. The S. A. G. called a
mass-meeting. It was evident that the producers were stalling in
negotiations which demanded a guild shop and that the time was ripe for
a showdown. The officers informed the meeting that they would bring
back a contract signed by the producers in a week or call a strike.
Afterward they realized that it was necessary to obtain a 75 per cent
vote of the membership before any strike of the Senior Guild could be
called. At a meeting held at his house Robert Montgomery opened without
preamble: "Ladies and gentlemen, you are here to sign a strike ballot.
If you sign, you may be called out on strike. You will strike—if you
do strike—on behalf of the extras. We are not asking for any privileges
for the Senior Guild." By the end of the week 600 Seniors had voted
for the strike and 18 against. The union began to make plans to open
coffee houses and restaurants to feed those who would be hard hit.
Everyone figured the strike was four days off. The tension was grave.

On Sunday morning Franchot Tone, Kenneth Thomson, Aubrey Blair,
and Robert Montgomery went to Louis B. Mayer's house. Joe Schenck was
there. The four told Mayer and Schenck flatly that they had to have
something in writing to take to the members at a mass-meeting that
night or else the strike was on. They interrupted a bridge game. Mayer
was a little petulant. Schenck said it was impossible to get all the
studio executives together on such short notice. Then he called Harry
Cohn, who was playing the races at Agua Caliente. Cohn told him what
was good enough for Schenck was good enough for him and got away from
the phone in time for the fifth race. Mayer next refused to call in a
stenographer. "It's Sunday!" he objected. "I've got 200 guests here!"
So Kenneth Thomson wrote the historic surrender in long hand. The terms
were guild shop; and Mayer and Schenck signed.

The four went back to Fredric March's house, where the S. A. G.
board was waiting. Now that the agreement was signed, they were a
little worried about some of the terms. The mass-meeting that night
ended their worries. The crowd tore the roof off. In another week the
hand-written surrender was reduced to formal legal phraseology and
formally signed, sealed, and delivered. Hollywood is a closed-shop
town, now. When the Brown Derby's union waiters walked out on strike,
actors refused to go through the picket lines.

There is many a Communist in the union, for the S. A. G. doesn't
care what a man's politics are so long as he doesn't bring them into
the guild. A minority thinks that the Senior Guild "sold out" the
extras and disagrees violently with almost everything either the Junior
or the Senior Guild proposes. It is a very vocal minority and even a
rather welcome one. Its latest proposal, that the Junior Guild be given
equal voting powers with the Senior Guild, was voted down by the
Juniors, 4,500 to 50.

The guild has obtained almost everything it has asked for.
Ninety-nine per cent of all Hollywood actors belong. The battle is now
definitely over, though a few minor objectives are still being
discussed. Producers are walking the straightest of straight lines. The
victories have been victories for the rank and file. For themselves
the stars have asked and won next to nothing.

The important thing is that the highest stars, like the lowest
extras, are vigilantly labor conscious. They are anxious to identify
themselves with any and all labor movements in behalf of the under-dog.
They are lending their names and their talents and their time, with
unabating enthusiasm. It would be unfair to single out any individual
actor as the greatest contributor. For his personal courage and
incisive strategy Robert Montgomery, present president of the S. A. G.,
has won the respect of the producers and unstinted praise from the
union and the public—a public, incidentally, which not so long ago
thought of him as a movie playboy. Joan Crawford, second
vice-president, has been of invaluable aid in enlisting the support of
actresses. Alan Mowbray, when the organization was being planned in
secret, financed the embryo S. A. G. with his personal check of $2,500.
Kenneth Thomson, executive secretary, has given nearly five years of
hard work and health-straining devotion. Ralph Morgan, a member of the
board for five years, Chester Morris, third vice-president, Franchot
Tone, James Cagney, first vice-president, Boris Karloff, assistant
secretary, Noel Madison, treasurer, Murray Kinnell, assistant treasurer,
and directors Edward Arnold, Humphrey Bogart, Dudley Digges, Lucille
Gleason, Porter Hall, Paul Harvey, Jean Hersholt, Russell Hicks, Frank
Morgan, Claude King, Fredric March, Jean Muir, Erin O'Brien-Moore,
Irving Pichel, Edward G. Robinson, Edwin Stanley, Gloria Stuart, Warren
William, Adolphe Menjou, Robert Young, Dick Powell, Gene Lockhart, and
George Murphy are only a partial list of those who might be nominated
for a labor Hall of Fame in Hollywood.

About Me

Actor, Casting Director, Director, Broadcaster, Writer, Singer, Artistic
Director, Dramatur, Producer, Professor, Coach, Husband, Grandfather, Marketing
Professional and life long student Art Lynch joined the staff of John Robert
Powers in 1999. Lynch is also an adjunct professor at the Community College of
Southern Nevada, the Morning Edition Weekend Host for Nevada Public Radio and
one of 67 individuals who represent 126,000 actors as a member of the Board of
Directors of the Screen Actors Guild. He is the past president of the Nevada
Branch of the Screen Actors Guild and of the Professional Audio/Visual Communications
Association. A resident of Nevada since 1984, Lynch has an MA in Communications
from UNLV and a BA in Theater, Speech and Mass Communications from the
University of Illinois, Chicago. He is currently pursuing post-graduate studies
in theater, education and the entertainment industry. Art Lynch studied and
practiced the craft of acting in Chicago and California before settling in
Nevada. With his wife Laura, Art owned and operated a successful marketing
company with national clientele. Art was personally responsible for casting and
directing over 1,000 commercials and industrials, as well as assisting on film
and television projects in many ways. His career also includes earning awards
as a wire service, magazine and broadcast journalist. He is most proud,
however, of his daughters. Ann is a PhD in neuroscience and Beth is the proud
mother of his grandchildren, Evan and Elijah.

Short Film Festival

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